


Changed

by Jennistar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a smitten kitten, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Nazis, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Relationship, for the love of someone watch the tv show if you haven't already, spoilers for tv show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 03:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennistar/pseuds/Jennistar
Summary: A lost scene that takes place after the bombing of a certain church full of Nazis.Or: Something about Aziraphale has changed. Crowley is determined to find it out...





	Changed

They both go quiet after they get in the car. They do a few general pleasantries (“How's the Bentley?” “Fine. How's the bookshop?” “Fine.”) but after that things get a bit awkward. Aziraphale supposes it's to be expected, since they haven't talked for a hundred years, but all the same, it's strange. He and Crowley have never run out of things to talk about before. But maybe blowing up a church of Nazis does that to a person.

He's still got the bag of books on his lap, and he's still clutching tightly to the handle as if someone is going to snatch it away again. Plus, there's all these new _feelings_ to deal with. Aziraphale has always loved Crowley, in that sort of vague general way that angels have built into them, but this is very different. This isn't just a warm “oh isn't Crowley a jolly good fellow” feeling, this is a “oh Heavens I am in violently head over heels for a demon, I've really done it now” feeling. He's got – and this is appalling to say and means he is a Very Bad Angel Indeed, but he has to admit it – he's got a _crush._

“Is there something different about you?” Crowley says suddenly.

Oh no, thinks Aziraphale, and glances over at the demon. Crowley is paying zero attention to the road, instead looking at Aziraphale over the top of his sunglasses. “No,” he says guiltily.

“There is,” Crowley insists. “Something's changed. What is it?”

Aziraphale forces himself to look away, out of the window at the darkened streets of the Blitz. “It's been a hundred years since you last saw me, Crowley, a lot might have changed for all you know.”

There's a small silence. Then Crowley admits, “I thought you were angry at me.”

“I was,” Aziraphale replies shortly. “I thought you were angry at _me_.”

“I was,” Crowley shoots back. “A bit. Mm. Not really.”

There's another silence. Aziraphale squeezes the handle of the bag on his lap.

“Look,” says Crowley at last. “I didn't realise you'd react like that. I won't ask you about it again, okay?”

Aziraphale glances over at Crowley. He's got his attention back on the road, but his hands are flexing on the steering wheel nervously. Aziraphale senses it probably isn't the end of the matter really, but for the sake of peace he says, “Okay.”

The atmosphere in the car lightens considerably, and Aziraphale knows for certain – though he couldn't say how he knows – that all is forgiven between them. Crowley whistles a little tune, Aziraphale looks out of the window.

“So this war,” he says. “Not your doing?”

“Of course not!” Crowley sounds almost insulted. “Are you kidding? Herr Hitler's mad as a box of frogs! Plus he has no style whatsoever, you know, killing everyone he hates willy nilly. Where's the elegance in that?”

Aziraphale smiles to himself. “I didn't think it was you. Too _messy_.”

“Well quite,” says Crowley, mollified. “Mind you, it's been hard to handle. Told the superiors it _was_ my idea, now I've got to be seen to be helping these lunatics whilst actually trying to inconvenience them. It's not been easy. Well, you'd know.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looks down at the bag of books. “I suppose my cunning plan was a bit of a disaster in the end.”

Crowley snorts. “Just a bit,” he says, then turns his steering wheel and parks them up outside the bookshop. The lights are off, in true Blitz style. Aziraphale is suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to stay with Crowley just a little longer.

“Tell you what,” says Crowley, apparently reading his mind. “What about dinner? Tomorrow?”

Aziraphale hesitates, torn as always, but even more torn now that he's apparently deeply and irrevocably in love with Crowley. “I don't know...”

“Just dinner,” Crowley wheedles. “I know a great place by the Thames. And you know what it's like these days, it might not be there much longer.”

That's all it takes to convince Aziraphale, which is a bit pathetic really. “All right. 7pm?”

“I'll pick you up,” confirms Crowley, and then, as Aziraphale is getting out of the car. “And I _am_ going to work out what's changed with you, angel.”

“Nothing's changed,” Aziraphale says, and closes the car door on Crowley's jubilant response of “Wrong!”

Inside the bookshop Aziraphale conscientiously draws the blackout blinds, turns on his desk light and puts the bag of books very carefully on the desk, and then just sits down in his chair for a bit and stares at the bag.

It's just a normal bag, a nice leather contraption, probably cost the Nazi a bit, but it's just a bag. Yet for some reason, looking at it gives Aziraphale tingles all over.

 

* * *

 

The next day Crowley arrives on the dot of 7pm, which should give Aziraphale his first warning, as Crowley always makes it his business to be late to everything. But before he can be properly suspicious, Crowley is launching himself over the Bentley's bonnet and running inside the bookshop, to where Aziraphale is just closing up and getting his coat and hat.

He grabs Aziraphale by the forearms. “I've got it!”

Aziraphale freezes in Crowley's grip, heart suddenly beating at a million miles per hour even though he's an angel and it shouldn't be beating at all. “Got what?” he asks, as innocently as he can.

“The answer to what's changed!” Crowley leans forward, right into Aziraphale's personal space, then leans back, holding the angel at arms length and looking him up and down. “And it's _really_ obvious when you're looking for it,” he says.

Aziraphale huffs, trying to ignore his hammering heart. “Would you let me go? And aren't we going to dinner or something?”

“You're not pure anymore,” Crowley announces, gleeful.

This time Aziraphale freezes properly, going stiff all over. “I'm – ”

“I mean, you're pure,” Crowley says, correcting himself as he scans Aziraphale. “But not as much as you were before. A little bit changed. In a good way. _Oh my God!_ ”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sniffs. “You shouldn't take the Lord's name in v – ”

“You've had _sex!_ ” shouts Crowley.

To Aziraphale's great embarrassment, he can feel himself going bright red, and he is immensely glad there is no one else around to hear the conversation. “Crowley that's ridiculous!”

“No it's not!” shouts Crowley. “ _Oooh_ , no it's not. That's it, isn't it! Your-your aura has changed a bit! It's not as pure anymore. Well, not sexually! _Damn_ , Aziraphale!”

“Shut up,” Aziraphale snaps. “It's none of your business – ”

“Who was it?” Crowley interrupts, and a big grin starts spreading on his face. “Go on, 'fess up.”

“It's none of your business!” Aziraphale repeats. “And it's over now and it didn't mean anything anyway!” And he has _no_ idea why he would tell Crowley that last bit, apart from the fact that it is suddenly vitally important to him that Crowley doesn't think he's attached to anyone else, and he doesn't know why that should be important at all.

Crowley is still grinning, standing back from Aziraphale and crossing his arms over his chest. “We're not going anywhere until you tell me who it was.”

“Crowley – ”

“Tell me!”

“Oscar Wilde!” Aziraphale snaps. “So there, now you know!”

Crowley's expression darkens, Aziraphale can tell even though he's wearing his sunglasses. “What, that poncey git?! I saw him at some theatre thing in the 1890s, he was swanning around with some posh bloke. Acting like he was the best thing in the world.”

“That _posh bloke_ was Lord Alfred Douglas,” Aziraphale sniffs. “And it all ended in disaster. And he was a great man. He had an incredible mind.”

“Did he now?” Crowley is grinning again, though Aziraphale can tell it's a bit forced. “I bet you _loved_ his 'incredible mind'.”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale snaps. “Anyway, it was all over in a few years. He died terribly young.” He's hit, briefly, by a bit of old sadness about the whole affair. Wilde had been, well, wild, but he'd always been gentle to Aziraphale. And he'd really opened his eyes about certain human habits.

Some of this must show on his face, because Crowley stops teasing entirely and drops his arms. “All right,” he says, and comes over to give Aziraphale a playful little nudge. “As long as I'm the only one in your affections now.”

Aziraphale can feel himself blushing again, although he knows Crowley is just joking (mostly). “Oh stop it,” he says again, more cheerfully.

Crowley grins, easy once more and no longer forced. “Dinner?”

“Dinner,” agrees Aziraphale.

 

 

 


End file.
